1992/3—2009
Prior to 1992, all the animals on the ranch were outdoor—cattle, horses, sometimes sheep, chickens, turkeys, geese, dogs, cats. There were shelters: barns, sheds, coops, dog houses. The yard and fields were fenced to keep home animals in, visitors out. The chickens stopped free ranging, however, after a vixen decimated the flock to feed her kits. Foxes climb trees and can jump some ten feet straight up to catch roosting birds. In two weeks she took every hen—first the larger, one each night, then the small until none were left. We caught an occasional glimpse, a tufted tail, a red flash of fur. I found feathers at the entrance to her lair in a blackberry bramble at the far end of one of the pastures. An enclosed yard—cinder blocks and wood around the bottom, chicken-wire walls and roof—has protected the flock since.
Kittens were born in the barn, in the loft in hay, sometimes in unused mangers, and when mother cat deemed them mature enough, she brought them to the back deck where we provided food beyond mother’s milk and mice, shrews, snakes and other bounty she provided. They grew and prospered, following the mother into the fields, learning the ways of free cats everywhere. When they were old enough, most were given away, a few stayed to keep the line alive. All were descended from an ur-mother, an orange tabby, a gift when I first moved in, who captured her first mouse before she was three months old, earning the name Mousetrap (Mouser or Mouse for short), who lived to old age outdoors, disappeared for a month or so and then reappeared to die and is now buried under the semidwarf apple tree beside the deck. In ’92 or ‘3, however, we moved a Neo mastiff pup into the yard who got along fine with all the resident adult cats—she chased off any strays who tried to move in—but who, for reasons I could never fathom, and whose attitude I never managed to change, would not tolerate kittens. After we found them cowering under the deck, to save their lives, we brought into the house Lilliputia and her brother, Buddy. In the years since, they left only to go to the vet’s, except once—Bud found his way outdoors and to escape the terrors spent the night hiding in the cottonwood as high as he could climb.
Lily thrived in the house, played with Bud and slept in the big bed. Whenever she felt especially affectionate or needy, she climbed onto a chest, usually 2 or 3 in the morning, and made dough on a neck or chin, purring furiously, a trick of her ur-mother, whom she greatly resembled.A few years ago, the vet diagnosed a growth on her thyroid, suggested injecting radioactive iodine and sequestering her feces for three months to allow for the degradation of the radioactivity. Despite the fearful trip to the one of two vets in the state specializing in this procedure, she returned much as before except she acted older, no longer the kitten she had seemed for so long.
She slept more but was as affectionate as ever. She and Buddy often lay together in Deb’s chair or in the font. Then the vet found a mass in her lower abdomen.
Chemo followed, but over the months, the mass continued to grow. We discussed options. A biopsy was tried, twice, without success. She was not in pain, but she clearly was not doing well. Then one Sunday, this October, she began to stumble on her rear legs. The vet came to the house and we discussed quality of life while Lily lay on the big bed and we petted her. An injection of a tranquilizer hardly seemed needed, but the vet assured us it would help calm any fears Lily might have. Then an intravenous injection and Lily’s heart stopped.Lilliputia is now in the raised bed by the pool. In the spring we will plant flowers.
